


in your eyes

by iamasecret (3ATLA)



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, Fluff and Angst, but mostly just angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5450984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3ATLA/pseuds/iamasecret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aubrey, Beca, Chloe, and Stacie spent a fabulous childhood together. But everything good must come to an end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in your eyes

The dim yellow streetlights swirl seamlessly to mix with the whiter luminescent lights coming from lines of shops. Headlights zoom by, morphing to red as you turn your head to follow them. Up above, clouded by layers and layers of pollution, you know that there are stars.

Who’s to fault you if you just can’t see them?

\- - - 

You hear your friend call to you from across the crowded cafeteria. You give a small smile and wave, carefully balancing your lunch tray on one forearm, holding it close to you. People mill around you, each one carrying their own tray with their own destination. It’s scary, really, being surrounded by so much motion, so much... life. 

You weave through the crowd, trying to not recognize anybody (and mostly ignoring everyone who shows signs of recognizing you), eventually making your way to the table where your friends sit. All two of them. The two people in the entire school you don’t actively try to avoid. 

Aubrey shoots you a tense, forced half-grin, bright green eyes making about the same effort to be cheerful as her pale pink lips. “What’s up?” she says, her voice clear but soft.

“Nothing much,” you say, sitting on the cold metal chair, focusing on your food. Not that it’s particularly appetizing, but looking down makes it easier to hide your face from the concerned eyes of your friends. 

The silence that follows your reply is almost deafening. You can tell that Bree and Stace are having a (very engaging) silent conversation--probably about you--that you’d be able to participate in if you’d just lift your head, but you don’t really care what they have to say, so you continue to meticulously cut the breaded chicken, stab the pieces with your fork, and bring them robotically to your mouth. 

_There used to be four of us sitting at this table,_ you think despondently. 

\- - - 

_It’s my fault,_ you tell yourself for the millionth time. _My fault.,_

\- - - 

There was a time, of course, when you were at least content, maybe even happy. Before relationship problems and the pure adrenaline of being careless and reckless became more important than responsibility, brain cells, and innocent _fun_ , you four were inseparable do-gooders. You’d stay at each other’s houses every other day during the summer, to the point where Chloe’s mom mixed up yours and her own daughter’s names at least once a week. You often ended up being cornered into helping old ladies rake their leaves, or helping your parents make dinner or clean the house. You never really minded, though, as long as you could do it together, and as long as there was always a song running through your minds and mouths. 

You remember hundreds of popsicle-stained mouths and fingers, leading to sticky clothes, board games, keyboards, headphones, and... basically everything. You remember evenings spent at the park, the warm summer air occasionally stirred by a soft breeze, trying to sync your swing with the person next to you. You remember rolling, wrestling, in the green, warm-smelling grass, picking dandelions and rubbing yellow all over each other’s faces (or, rather, watching from the sidelines as Aubrey, Stacie, and Chloe did these things--you’d always been much more reserved than any of them). 

Bree and Stace were great, of course, but they were never as close to you as Chloe was. She lived in the condo next to you, and you were just so similar; everything was always easy. You knew what the other needed always, and what the other was thinking often. Chlo had always been the more outgoing one: you were heartbreakingly shy. It was a miracle you even spoke to anybody, let alone laughed with them. But Chlo had brought the best out in you, eventually coaxing you to speak above a soft murmur, and getting you to sit with your shoulders back and your head held high. It had even been she who had convinced you to switch from the blocky glasses you usually hid behind to sleek contact lenses. She changed you, made you happier. And, in turn, you tried to make her happier. 

\- - - 

_My fault._

\- - - 

When you all got older, the park became a place to do more than just play on the playground. There were hundreds of trees, trails, and dandelion-studded fields, all ready to be used in the most dramatic of games or in the simplest of enterprises. 

Climbing trees, in addition to being the least complicated activity you did there, was one of your favorite things in the world. Each time, and this time was no different, you hurried to the top, racing to find the clear expanse of sky that would always be waiting for you, placing first hands and then feet on the sticky branches. 

“Hey,” she calls from her perch on a tall root far beneath you, gently turning a page in her book. “You having fun up there?”

You sigh contentedly, back against the trunk of the tree, looking up at the clear, bright blue sky. “Don’t I always?”

From the corner of your eye, you can see Chloe look up to you. “No, not always,” she says seriously. “Actually, I’m pretty sure that the only times I see you like this are when you’re in some tree or another or when you're playing music.” She pauses. “I still don’t know how you do it,” she mutters. 

You look down at her in mock surprise. “What? Something that I can do that Miss Beale can’t? That’s unprecedented! Unheard of! Why, I’m surprised they even allow tree-climbing in this kingdom, seeing as you don’t approve of it.”

She rolls her eyes at you, shaking her shining hair back. “Just because I’m afraid of heights,” she says playfully. “It’s not like I have a choice in the matter.” 

“No choice? Someone with as many talents as you can’t be stopped by something as simple as a phobia.” You smile innocently down at her. “Join me in the Dark Side... we have cookies,” you say in a deep voice.

Chloe laughs at you. “You... are in rare form today.” She places her bookmark carefully into her novel and stands up, leaving the book on the ground. “Fine. I’ll come up...” she puts her hands on her hips and cocks an eyebrow, “but only if you actually make me cookies. With ice cream.”

“Done,” you say immediately, not considering that you’ve literally made cookies once in your life, and you basically put the chocolate chips into the bowl/ate chocolate chips while Aubrey and Chloe put together the rest of the ingredients. At least you’d done more than Stacie, who’d just stared longingly at the mixing bowl until Aubrey had told her to stop ogling her hard-won chocolate or get out. 

Chloe takes two steps to the base of the tree, looking up at the first branch. She puts her hand up, trying to reach it, then frowns. Taking a few steps back, she takes a running leap and comes within six inches of it. You snicker at her. “You know, if you asked nicely, I might be convinced to help you get up.”

“Go away,” she huffs. “I can do this.” She closes her eyes, centering herself, then tries again. And again. “This literally makes no sense!” she huffs. “I’m like four inches taller than you! How did you even...” She jumps for a final time, coming within two or three inches, but obviously she has nothing more to offer, because she pants, bending over and putting her hands on her knees, letting her hair fall into her slightly pink face. 

You can imagine her thinking, “Come on, Beale... do it for the cookies,” before she finally gives in and asks, still looking at the ground, “Will you please come help me up?” 

\- - - 

It’s been three months since the scariest, saddest night of your life. Your memories from throughout the night--from the lulling, lapping sound of the ocean, reflecting the rosy sunset, to the interior of the car, the steering wheel in front of you, keys jingling together as you go to start the car, her hand upon yours as she sees you start to break down--are strangely vivid.

You didn’t mean to get drunk that night, you really didn’t. You’d promised yourself (and your parents) that you wouldn’t drink underage, plus you were a designated driver, so you’d be doubly careful. There wasn’t even supposed to be alcohol at the party. You’d only invited your three best friends. You’d made each of them promise not to bring alcohol, and they’d all agreed. So, when Stacie offered you lemonade from a water cooler, you had happily let them refill your cup all night long. 

You’d been through all of these reasons thousands of times. It wasn’t your fault you were drinking. You didn’t even know for sure that you were drunk: you just thought that you were nervous. The whole sunset-on-a-beach thing had seemed strangely romantic to you, and inviting your friends to see it with you felt odd. (And okay, maybe you were hoping that somebody would take this chance to ask you to prom, but whatever, that was a missed opportunity.) All those pent-up nerves had, maybe, caused a mild panic attack as you went to start your car. 

After a few moments you felt better, so you nodded at her and started the car, shifting gears and turning in your seat to make sure Bree and Stace weren’t being idiots and standing right behind you as you tried to back up (sometimes when they were alone and distracted, they could do stuff like that).

The last thing about that night you ever let yourself remember was seeing the stars, blinking out from behind the ever-present clouds, or maybe dancing in front of your eyelids.


End file.
